


foreigner's god

by wingbones



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Blood and Gore, Drug Use, F/M, Fake AH Crew, Female Jack, Heist, Injury, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-04 08:14:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4130769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingbones/pseuds/wingbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>where they’re going now, ray isn’t sure. his faith in geoff’s plans for a crew is still feeble at best, but he can feel that flame kindling in his chest, that need for something better. something different. and this will be different, he can tell.</p>
<p>he just hopes they’ll see it through, make it out intact. as intact as you can in a place like los santos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the beginning

the conversation starts while they’re bent over the coffee table one night after a score. michael’s eyes are already red-rimmed before he even starts dumping the white powder onto the table, sifting through it with the edge of a worn gamestop powerup card. ray watches, clipped-off straw already between his fingers. they’d started with dollar bills, back when they were new to the game, but the novelty wears off when you have to pay for your groceries with a twenty that you’d shoved up your nose the night before. at some point they’d switched to straws, though ray can’t remember when. he can’t remember a lot of things. 

“so i have an idea,” michael says after he’s snorted his line, brow still furrowed and nose crinkled against the burn. he sniffs loudly, slides the powerup card across the table to ray, and ray just holds it for a moment, fingertips tracing the plastic edges. he can’t remember if this card was michael’s or his own. at this point they’re so mingled that it doesn’t really matter. 

“mm,” he offers, wordless, but a cue to continue. he portions out a line for himself, nice and thick. it’ll burn like hell, but he prefers it all at once. michael waits, like a gentleman, while he sticks the end of the straw up one nostril, pinches the other, and sniffs. it hits all at once, straight fire through his sinuses, and he rocks himself back against the couch, picking up any remnants with his thumb and pressing it to his gums just to feel the tingle. it feels like he’s done too much, like his nose might bleed, but that’s no big deal. wouldn’t be the first time.

“there’s a crew forming. kinda.” ray’s eyes snap to his, and michael raises a hand to quell the doubts he can already read on his face. “i know, i know.” they’ve never wanted a crew. ray and michael go way back, from nervous teenagers to hard-shelled drug-peddlers, mercenaries if you pay the right price. their kind of loyalty runs deeper than crews, deeper than _blood_. they just can’t trust anyone else quite like they trust each other, and with the games they play, trust is everything.

“michael.” 

“this is different,” michael insists, laying his palms flat on the coffee table, and ray mirrors his pose, feeling the scuffed up wood under the pads of his fingers. he knew that much, if it weren’t michael would never have voiced it. that doesn’t make him any sweeter to the idea, but he lets him speak. “this guy, he knows what he’s doing, the crazy motherfucker. he’s got a plan. and he wants mogar and brownman on that plan, alright? top of the fucking list, all caps. and i think it could work.” when ray’s brows furrow, the distrust apparently clear on his face, michael’s voice softens. “we could get out of this place.” 

that gives ray pause, in a bittersweet sort of way. michael’s always had aspirations of climbing out of this hellhole. leaving this shithole apartment and their shit day jobs behind and becoming something bigger and better. ray used to share that desire, but ray’s become more and more like a shell or a vessel or some sort of gutted, empty thing, and becoming _great_ just doesn’t matter anymore. he’s always been a survivor, just barely pulling through with the barest essentials. he wants for nothing but his next fix, and to wake up tomorrow morning - and sometimes, not even that. 

but there’s a fire in michael’s eyes that he hasn’t seen in a long, long time. and ray can be selfish, ray can care about himself and fuck everybody else, but he and michael are two sides to the same coin, and there’s a warm feeling in his gut when he sees that spark return to a face that’s been dead for so long.

and maybe he can find a spark, too.

“just a trial run, alright?” it sounds like michael’s trying to barter, but they know each other better than even the streets of this city, and from the gentle twist of his mouth it’s apparent that he knows he’s won. still, he’s placating, sweetening the deal. he knows how big of a leap he’s asking ray to take. “no strings attached. if you decide it’s not a good fit we’re fuckin’ gone.” 

ray sighs. the things he does for his friend.

“fine.” 

* * *

geoff is a weird guy. his aesthetic looks mafioso, slick pressed suit and sharp edge to his mouth, but there’s a faint southern drawl on his words that suggests a different upbringing, and besides, the italians much prefer the east coast. los santos is not a hideout for their kind. there are tattoos peeking out from under his cuffs and down his fingers, snaking up from his collar in dark, sultry lines. there’s a lazy droop to his lids and the way he clutches his glass of bourbon suggests that he’s had several already, but something about him screams _dangerous_. 

they’re at his place, a modern-style penthouse. there’s a table next to the couch that looks like it probably cost more than a month of ray’s paychecks, and everything looks so clean and refined and dripping of wealth. ray can tell from the glint in michael’s eyes that he’s immediately enamored with the joint, but he himself is less impressed. seems this guy likes to blow green on shit that doesn’t matter. hard to find that enrapturing. 

geoff gestures for them to sit; michael takes the armchair across from him, trying to hide how pleased he is when he sinks into the cushion, but ray prefers to stand, leaning his hip against the arm of michael’s chair and observing in silence. there’s a woman across the living room that geoff introduced as jackie, and when ray’s eyes meet hers, he can read nothing there. she doesn’t seem aggressive, but that’s no cue to let his guard down by any means. everything about this situation feels like a thinly veiled threat, and he’s grateful for the pistol tucked in his waistband. it makes him feel less exposed. 

“mogar,” geoff greets, smirking at them both as he throws back what’s left of his bourbon and sets the glass on the table. “brownman. so glad you decided to pay me a visit! i gotta say, i’ve been itching to talk to you two for a while.” 

“so i’ve heard,” ray responds, flatly. geoff’s grin gets wider, and the glint of his teeth, crooked as they are, seems animalistic. not a warning, more like a panther yawning wide, showing off its fangs. a reminder that despite his attitude, he’s still a beast.

“i’ll be up front, i’ve heard about your work. and i think you’re just the guys for my crew.” geoff leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees. “with my past experience, i’m living a very cushy life, as you can see.” ray’s glance flicks about the room again, taking in the white walls, the massive television, the fucking _chandelier_ he can see through the walkway into the dining room. apparently. “but i’m fucking bored. i’m bored and i wanna raise hell. i wanna run this fucking city, and you two would be perfect to run it with me.” 

ray can see michael’s eyes glittering in his peripheral vision. smooth words. it’s everything michael’s ever wanted: the chance to sit at the top and the chance to bring the fucking ruckus. he’s an animal barely contained inside a person, and he wants to run loose. ray, however, is not taken by geoff’s speech. his arms cross over his chest, narrowed eyes boring into hazy blue. 

“those are some tall words.” 

“not just words,” geoff replies. “the crew will be the dream team. i’ve picked people with very specialized skills. we could level this fucking city.” and there’s such conviction in his words that it’s hard not to believe it, but ray is a skeptic by nature. 

“do we get to know who else is on this ‘dream team’?” michael speaks up finally, and ray applauds him internally for not getting entirely swept up. geoff waves a hand, leans back on the couch. 

“i can’t share all the plans, not yet. but i’ve got tactics, incendiary and weapons down. i have my brute strength and my stealth expert, if you accept. and with the proper planning, there’s no one that would stop us.” 

it sounds...tempting. and after hearing all of this, as full of bluster as it may be, it’s hard to think about going back to their shithole apartment. if not for himself, but for michael. he can practically feel the man vibrating in his seat, and he knows he wasn’t happy before, but he sure as hell won’t be happy now.

“alright,” he relents, and michael looks around at him, grinning. “we’ll give it a shot.” 

that wildcat smile is back on geoff’s face, but it’s warmer, reaching over to pour himself another glass. “good.”

* * *

they leave their apartment the next day. they don’t keep much, and it only takes a few boxes set in the back of michael’s beat up four-door to empty the place of all their belongings. geoff’s putting them up in the apartment he’s dubbed the crew hideout, and though this is still technically a test-run, it feels like finality. ray looks back through the window at their old apartment block as it disappears around the corner, rubbing at his nose, and feels nothing at all. in a way, he’s not surprised. it was never really _home_ for them, just a place in which they resided. they’ve always been out of sync, out of step with the world around them in their own twisted way - it’s what bound them together, what made them so close. leaving for something new just seems to be the path meant for them, however temporary it may be.

michael looks over when he stops at a redlight, reaching out to touch ray’s wrist over the console. ray looks to him and smiles, reserved. 

where they’re going now, ray isn’t sure. his faith in geoff’s plans for a crew is still feeble at best, but he can feel that flame kindling in his chest, that need for something better. something different. and this will be different, he can tell.

he just hopes they’ll see it through, make it out intact. as intact as you can in a place like los santos.


	2. gavinofree has joined the game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gavin joins the crew, and a plan is made.

the next morning, ray and michael meet their new crewmate. 

ray spent the entire night awake on his xbox, curled on the couch with his knees to his chest. he’s never been good at sleeping, let alone in strange places, and he’d long since given up on getting any shut-eye once the sun came up when geoff came through the door of the apartment, a tall waif of a man in tow. ray raises an eyebrow and pauses the game, setting his controller aside. the guy looks like he’s come out of the wrong side of a windstorm, sandy brown hair an absolute disaster that seems to be defying gravity in ways that it shouldn’t be capable of. he’s talking rather animatedly to geoff, who appears as though he’s either too drunk to deal with it, or not drunk enough. 

“but think about it,” the man insists, and whoa, he’s got one hell of an accent. “what if the continents move because the earth is always getting bigger? it makes sense, just think about it!” 

“i’m not bill nye,” geoff responds slowly, “but i’m pretty sure you’re a fucking idiot.” 

“geee- _oooff_ ….!” 

ray clears his throat, shifting around so that his whole body is facing them. well, this is a promising first impression of this dude, whoever he is. “hey, geoff.” 

geoff looks a little relieved to see him, as though it’s a comfort that he doesn’t have to deal with the british guy by himself anymore. “good, you’re up. this is gavin, our weapons guy. don’t let him fool you, he knows what he’s doing. mostly.” 

gavin sticks out his hand, and after a moment ray reaches out to shake it. “‘ello! and you are?” 

“brownman.” 

gavin’s brow furrows. “you don’t have a _real_ name?” 

“it’s brownman to you,” ray says, and his voice pitches down a little; gavin gets the hint, though he’s clearly a little slow on the uptake, and nods rather than pushing the issue. ray appreciates it - it’s not that his name is so precious to him or anything, but he still doesn’t know these people, can’t tell if they’re worth trusting. michael always laughs at his cautiousness, but it’s kept him alive so far, so he’s not keen on changing his methods. 

speak of the devil, ray thinks, turning his head just as michael emerges from the bedroom. he looks well-rested, which is a rarity for both of them, and though ray’s expression doesn’t change he feels the fond warmth in his chest. now, if only he could settle so well in this new environment, but michael’s always been good at not letting things get to his head. 

“who the fuck is this?” michael asks, voice still gravelly with sleep. gavin flashes him a wide, bright grin and holds out his hand, but michael just stares at him until his smile falters and he lowers it again.

“i’m gavin. m’joining your little crew.” he glances back like he’s looking for geoff to support him, but geoff has already migrated to the kitchen, presumably to search for something alcoholic. it was pretty clear when ray and michael moved in that this place had been furnished by geoff himself, just from the sight of the overflowing liquor cabinet. 

michael shrugs, comes over to flop on the couch beside ray. ray leans in just enough that their arms touch, a silent greeting. “whatever. i’m michael. don’t bother me and i’m sure we’ll get along fine.” 

“bloody friendly lot, aren’t they?” gavin mutters under his breath. ray snorts, passing michael his controller. 

when geoff resurfaces with his booze, he comes over to settle in the armchair by the sofa, glass pressed to his lips. “jackie will be here soon,” he informs them, “and then we’re gonna start planning.” 

“we heisting, geoff?” gavin leans over the back of the couch. geoff tips his hand from side to side in a way that seems to mean ‘kind of,’ throwing back the rest of his drink. 

“just a little. ironing out the kinks.” and ray knows that to mean ‘figure out if you guys can work together,’ and it’s logical enough, geoff seems to be the type with a good head on his shoulders. this is confirmed when jackie arrives, bag slung over her shoulder, and lays out a map of los santos on the kitchen table. ray’s gotten himself some coffee, because he’s used to the sleepless nights but that doesn’t mean they don’t wear him down, and he wants to be able to focus. 

geoff pulls out a sharpie, circles a spot on the map. “we’re gonna hit this gas station on tongva. i expect we’ll get around a grand, twelve hundred if we’re lucky. there’s not a lot going on around there, just some houses and shit, and we’ve got a straight line into the hills to lose the cops. jackie’s gonna provide us with the vehicles; michael and gavin, you’re going to roll up and rob the joint. there’s two registers, pop them both if you can, and clean up after yourselves.” he gives gavin a look, and the brit lets out a birdlike squawk of indignation. 

“that was _once,_ geoff, alright -” 

“and it happening once is stupid enough. i’m not gonna come and save you if the clerk pulls a gun on you this time, you fuckhead.” 

michael snorts. “giving me a lot of confidence, boss.” 

“don’t worry, michael! i’ll have your back!” 

“dude, that is _not_ how you say my name..” 

ray clears his throat, and he’s trying hard not to look uncomfortable, but he kind of is. they all sound normal, like they’ve been doing this for years, even michael, and he doesn’t know how to feel about being the odd man out here. he’s not used to this. he’s a solo operator, michael a rare exception to that rule. and it’s not the first time since michael brought up the crew that he’s thought this might be a bad idea for him, that he’s just not gonna fit, but it’s pulling at his belly in a way that’s a lot like dread. 

he doesn’t like to fail. especially not when it’s so apparent from his friend’s face that michael’s going to succeed. maybe it’s selfish, but he prefers it the way it used to be, where when they went down, they went down together.

jackie meets his eyes from across the table, ignoring michael and gavin’s banter - fuck, they already sound like old friends, michael’s rough words already softened around the edges, and he hates it, wasn’t expecting it - and there’s something in her face that makes him feel like she can read his every thought on his face. he knows she can’t, shouldn’t be able to, his pokerface is the best of the best, but it’s almost like she understands. empathy, not sympathy. like she’s felt it before.

she flashes him a gentle smile, and oddly, ray feels comforted.

“brownman,” geoff says, and he sounds exasperated, body turned away from the terrible two like he’s too annoyed to even face them. ray remembers where he is, and he has to tune out their conversation again (“what the fuck is a gaff? that’s not a real fucking word -” “yes it _is_ , michael -”) but it’s not hard, he has something more important to focus on. he can worry about the conflicting emotions in his chest when he’s alone again tonight, when he doesn’t need to keep his mind elsewhere. “there’s not much for vantage points, no buildings or anything you can snipe from, but we’ll need protection from the ground for when the cops arrive. if you can find a good spot, use it.” 

“got it.” that area’s pretty hilly if he’s remembering correctly, he can sequester himself somewhere that gives him a good view. it’s not ideal, but not the biggest challenge he’s ever faced. it’ll prove that his skill isn’t just limited to hiding atop buildings, anyway. 

“i’ll be waiting on the road for you,” jackie puts in. “once they’re out of the area we’ll make our escape. geoff will be covering them from his own vehicle. we’re going to split up, you and i will head west and they’ll head north, to make us harder to catch.” 

“if all goes well,” geoff finishes, “we split the money five ways and count it a victory, and then we’re looking for bigger fish to fry. sound good?” 

“top!” gavin leans in, looking at ray with an almost childlike earnest. “brownman, if you want, i can take a look at your gun? spiff it all up.” and ray bristles a little, instinctively, because like fuck does he want a random stranger fucking with his rifle, but he can tell from the guy’s face that he’s trying so hard to make friends. and maybe it’s that weird off-beat feeling that makes him do it, but he figures he can cut gavin some slack. 

“sure.”

he gets a winning smile from everyone at the table, which, alright, makes him feel a little like he’s at fucking thanksgiving dinner and his family’s trying to prod him towards being social, but whatever. he can play their game, he can be friendly. sure.

geoff claps his hands together, looking satisfied. “get all rested up, kids, because tomorrow’s the day.”

* * *

later that afternoon, michael and ray head out in michael’s shitty car to scope out the heist location. ray’s wanting a better look at the area, to see if he can find any decent places to cover their backs while they’re in the gas station. the ride out to the hills is quiet, michael tapping his fingers to the beat of some old rock song on the radio that ray doesn’t recognize. 

“you okay?” michael says finally, and ray rolls his eyes. he was waiting for it - michael tends to give off that anxious parent vibe whenever he wants to talk to ray about something, and it gets a little overbearing to be trapped in a confined space with that. 

“why wouldn’t i be?”

michael turns his head to fix him with an intent stare, and after a couple of seconds ray almost makes a snide remark about keeping his eyes on the road, but he thinks better of it. “look. i know this isn’t how you do things, we've been friends for years. don’t try to lie to me, i can see right through it. i just want to make sure you’re okay.” 

ray scoffs, fiddling with the sleeve of his hoodie. “fine. it’s weird, alright? i’m not good with people like you are. it’s gonna take a bit to adjust. but i’m alright, really. don’t worry about me.” 

michael reaches over, brushes his hand on ray’s arm. “okay.” and ray appreciates the fuck out of michael sometimes, the way he just accepts it and doesn’t push. he just speaks up enough to make it known that he cares, and then he gives ray his space. and maybe that’s why they work so well together - they don’t step on each other’s toes. 

ray finds a spot atop the crest of a hill where he can hide in the undergrowth and still get a good view of the gas station and the street that runs alongside it, and when they get back to the apartment, he feels a little better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ryan's still not in this yet, but don't worry, he will be *very* soon.


	3. bmvagabond has joined the game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the boys rob a gas station, and geoff has ideas that ray can't help but question.

unsurprisingly, the plan nearly goes to shit.

to everyone’s credit, it only unravels near the end: ray had been doing a good job of keeping the cops off the gas station, jackie and geoff offering the occasional assist by means of grenades from their respective getaway vehicles, but other than clearing the debris they hung back and let the new recruits do their thing. that thing being, apparently, gavin deciding he wants to blow up the gas station. there’s a loud commotion of yelling over the com system, and ray squints down the sight of his rifle to try and catch sight of what’s going on.

his rifle operates much more smoothly than it did before, the kick back not nearly as strong, but right now he’s not in the mood to give gavin any credit. not when he’s about to ruin the entire mission. 

“c’mon, michael! it’ll be so cool, we can walk away from the explosion like they do in the movies, yeah?” 

“gavin i _swear to god_ i will snap your fucking neck -” 

another flurry of sounds, something that sounds suspiciously like a grenade launcher being loaded, and how the fuck did he get a grenade launcher in there? michael snarls over the com and there’s a chorus of birdlike squawks, and then nothing. 

“geoff, i’m gonna need your help here,” michael grunts after a moment. ray stares at the door of the gas station, trying to see what’s happening, and is treated to the sight of michael dragging an obviously unconscious gavin out just in time for geoff’s car to squeal up into the parking lot.

“did you knock him out?” ray asks, impressed. there’s a confused, mildly distressed “what?” from jackie that gets drowned out in geoff’s roaring laughter.

“he was gonna blow up the joint, so i stopped him,” michael responds, and geoff’s laughter gets louder. his voice cracks when he laughs like he’s still going through puberty, it’s pretty amusing to hear.

“you’re the best, michael.” 

“thanks, boss.” 

“i’m coming to get you now, brownman,” jackie says, and ray picks up his rifle bag, slinging the gun over his shoulder. he’s thinking about what he’s going to do with his cut of the money and how badly he wants to go home and sleep when he spots what seems to be a figure slinking around by the treeline. ray frowns, lifts his gun again and looks through the sights. “just a sec, jackie, there’s somebody out by the trees.” 

his eyes hadn’t lied to him: there is indeed a man by the trees, at quite a distance from the chaos yet still obviously watching it closely. ray’s only able to see the back of his head, and it looks like he’s wearing a du-rag or something over his head that obscures his features. it’s hard to tell at this distance. he’s only guessing at the gender, really, considering that, but he appears to be male, and unarmed.

he’s about to squeeze the trigger and take the guy out when the head swivels around and he’s met by a sight full of dark grey mask, fashioned into the realistic interpretation of a human skull. he nearly drops his gun in surprise. “fuck!” 

“what’s the matter?” michael’s voice crackles over the com, sounding concerned.

“there’s some dude in a fucking halloween mask, what the fuck.” he lines up his shot again now that the surprise has dissipated somewhat; he can’t leave behind any witnesses, even weird ones that seem to have forgotten it’s july and not october. 

“don’t shoot him,” geoff commands.

“what? but he..” 

“put your gun down, brownman, and go with jackie.” geoff’s lighthearted voice from earlier is gone, and as much as ray hates being bossed around, he recognizes that there’s some importance to him following this order. so he reluctantly lowers his rifle and turns to make his way down the hill to where jackie is waiting on the road for him. 

the ride through the hills is hectic; at some point ray has to stick the barrel of his rifle through the window to eliminate the heat on their tail, but they manage to get away unscathed. jackie pulls onto the highway that circles los santos and begins the long roundabout trip back to the apartment, and ray takes apart his rifle, setting it back in his bag with a gentle reverence. 

someday he’ll spiff her up real good. give her a nice paint job. maybe gavin can help with that, he has to admit with some reluctance that the brit fixed her up quite a bit. 

“so who’s the mask guy?” he asks jackie once his gun is put away, settling down in the passenger seat and kicking his feet up on the dashboard. she gives him a look that can only be interpreted as a motherly scowl - he can remember a faint echo of that face on his own mother, but it’s been blurred by time and the drugs he’s constantly insufflating and smoking. he would be sad about it, but. it’s better to lose them all than to keep them all. or so he thinks.

when he doesn’t put his feet down jackie frowns and turns her attention back to the road. “have you ever heard of the mad mercenary?” 

it takes some thinking to dredge up why the name is so familiar. “the crazy guy from vice city?” 

“that’s the one,” she says, and ray is fast on the uptake, brows raising in surprise. 

“what’s he doing here?” it takes a hell of a criminal for his reputation to spread from one side of the country to the other, but the mad mercenary’s methods are well known even in the streets of los santos. they say he’s a psychopath, a demon incarnate. ray’s never been one to believe the hype - the shit they say about _him_ , for example - but a quick web search into the crimes the man has committed seemed to lay truth to the claims. the guy’s a madman by all accounts, apparently. the fact that he’s in los santos sounds...ominous.

“well.” jackie smiles at him, wryly, like she has a bad taste in her mouth. “geoff invited him to join the crew.” 

“ _him?_ ” ray can’t keep the incredulity out of his tone. maybe he was wrong, maybe geoff isn’t as smart as he seems when he’s making plans. it’s starting to sound like he’s lost his fucking mind.

“they’ve known each other a long time. geoff used to run with a crew in vice city, they met there. he seems to have faith that the mad mercenary will be good for the crew.” the way jackie says it sounds like she’s trying to convince herself as much as she’s trying to convince ray. he sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose under his glasses. 

“the dude’s a wildcard. i don’t even know him that well and i know that much. isn’t gavin enough?” 

jackie just laughs, soft in the back of her throat. it sounds fond. 

“i don’t think anything’s enough for geoff.”

 _fuck,_ ray thinks, scrubbing a hand through his hair. _the fuck did i get myself into?_

* * *

when they get back to the apartment, the mad mercenary is waiting for them.

geoff, michael, and gavin are already there: the brit is still very much unconscious, slumped haphazardly on the couch like someone dumped him there. ray scoffs, striding into the kitchen to grab himself a soda, and walks face first into the chest of the man he saw on the hill. 

the mask is much more eerie up close, especially since he can see the glitter of deep blue eyes behind it. they’re currently narrowed down at him, and without any other facial cues to assist, ray can only interpret it as disturbing. he steps away from him, unable to stop his arms from coming up around himself a little protectively. 

“sorry.” 

the mad mercenary says nothing, just stares at him with that creepily piercing gaze. ray clears his throat, stepping around him so he can get to the fridge. 

_awesome. i’m gonna have to live in an apartment with this fucker._

“brownman! i see you’ve met vagabond.” geoff claps the masked guy on the shoulder, striding in with his eyes already trained on the liquor cabinet. “he was observing our first job to see if we’re worth moving up from vice city and joining. he seems to think we are.”

“how flattering,” ray deadpans, opening his can of coke. he sees the mad mercenary - no, vagabond, and thank god, because ‘mad mercenary’ is a fucking mouthful - widen his eyes at him and it’s hard to read if he’s surprised or amused or annoyed. that mask is going to get really irritating really fast, he can tell.

he turns around and offers his hand to vagabond, trying his best to look friendly. it’s a bit difficult. “nice to meet you. i’m brownman, and i wish geoff had warned us about you being there because i almost took your head off.” 

there’s a raspy noise from under the mask that sounds like a chuckle, and vagabond takes his hand, shaking firmly. ray tries not to notice how warm his grip is. 

“alrighty! enough with the sewing circle.” geoff swings back through, a bottle of jack daniels in his fist, already uncapped and a fourth of the way to empty. “time to divvy up the cash.” 

and if ray could drink, he’d raise a toast to that.

"christ alive - who knocked me over the head!?"

if only he could drink.


	4. monsters are people too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ray finds himself confused by vagabond, and michael's not the sharpest tool in the shed, but there are some things he understands much better than ray.

over the next week, geoff spends much of his time at the kitchen table, planning their next heist. it’s apparently some pretty intense work - geoff is a very laid back individual, ray’s learned, but when it comes to work he throws himself upon it with all his energy. ray is pretty sure it’s been 2 days and geoff hasn’t moved from his chair more than twice, once to use the bathroom and once to replace his empty whiskey bottle with a new one. that guy drinks enough to shut down the liver of a bull elephant, but that’s none of ray’s business, really. so long as it doesn’t interfere with the job, he doesn’t care what the man’s vices are. it's not like he doesn't have a slew of his own, each more destructive than the last. 

how he’s not pissing himself with all that alcohol going into his system, though, ray will never know.

that aside, he’s more worried about settling down with his more...overbearing crewmates. gavin in particular, since he seems to have some sort of mission to get ray to be his best pal. ray is...not sure how to feel about that. it’s been so long since he could honestly say he had a friend outside of michael, and even then it was shallow and meaningless. just people he hung out with sometimes that he could stand to be around. he is not the type of man for friendship. 

that doesn’t seem to deter gavin, but then again, nothing seems to.

“so why do you call yourself brownman?” gavin flops down on the couch beside ray and asks one day; he’s clutching a cup of tea - as if he needed to remind anyone of his foreign ancestry - and the movement jostles it enough to send droplets skidding off the rim and onto his fingers. he scoffs angrily, tries to wipe them away with his shirt. 

ray turns to stare at him. “because i’m a brown man?” 

gavin blinks. “but you’re...sorry, but you’re not really that brown.” 

“i get that a lot,” ray replies dryly, turning back to his game. he’s trying to get a particularly difficult achievement, and he’d like to focus on that instead, but gavin doesn’t really shut up for very long.

“you’re good at video games,” he says, sounding impressed. ray shrugs; he is. it’s pretty much all he puts his time into other than work, at that rate it’d be more notable if he weren’t any good. but he accepts the compliment nonetheless. 

“how long have you known michael?” gavin says after a moment, and ray sighs internally. gavin’s really not that unpleasant to be around as he makes him out to be, if he’s honest with himself, but he never seems to stop probing for information. ray could probably handle that better if he weren’t sleep deprived and trying to focus on his game, to be fair, but it’s grating his nerves at the moment. 

“thirteen years,” ray responds. he can see gavin’s eyes go wide out of the corner of his eye. “we go way back.”

“wow. i’m like that with my buddy dan, but he’s in the uk. serving in the army, y’know.” gavin looks a little forlorn at the thought, and a more friendly person might have comforted him or offered some words of understanding or reassurance, but ray just waits to see if he has anything else to say. this is why he doesn’t have any friends other than michael - he’s pretty damn terrible at it. why michael’s stuck around he’ll never know, but he appreciates it. 

like a knight in shining armor, vagabond comes through the room on his way to the kitchen before any more questions can be asked and gavin promptly fucks off back to his bedroom. apparently ray isn’t the only one weirded out by the guy. he hasn’t seen him take off his mask since they first saw each other, and it’s a little uncomfortable having nothing to go off of appearance wise. ray’s become a bit of an expert at reading people, but vagabond is like a brick wall, lacking any outward expression. though perhaps that’s for the best, ray’s not sure if he really wants to know what’s under the mask. 

vagabond settles in the armchair with a bowl of cereal, and ray sets down his controller for a moment, wondering if this is the moment when he’ll actually see the strange man’s face, but to his disappointment vagabond only pushes the mask up enough to uncover his mouth and eat his food. the disappointment swiftly turns to something hinging on disturbed, though, when ray gets a look at what’s beneath.

“are you wearing face paint?” 

vagabond shrugs a shoulder, calmly spooning up another bite of cheerios. it’s one of the more ridiculous things ray’s seen in his life. 

“you’re fucking weird,” he mutters, resuming his game. vagabond makes that raspy chuckling sound again. “what’s your deal, anyway? all that crazy shit in vice city. i mean, i’m used to killing people for a living, but one bullet’s enough for me, y’know?” 

it’s a risk, acting like vagabond’s lifestyle is weird - for all he knows the guy has a demonic temper and will make him the next body strewn on the los santos streets. it wouldn’t be a stretch, but vagabond only smiles over his spoon. 

“maybe i just enjoy watching people in agony.” 

ray shivers a little, no longer thankful. vagabond’s voice is gravelly and rough, like he’s not used to using it, and deep. it sounds almost soothing, which makes his reply all the more eerie. while he’s distracted, ray’s character on screen gets shot in the head and goes down in a spray of blood and gore. 

he hopes that’s not a fucking sign.

* * *

he doesn’t realize the significance of what has occurred until he’s called over by geoff to contribute his knowledge of vantage points for the heist. he’s sitting on the other side of the kitchen table, looking down at the map of los santos, when he decides he might as well ask.

“what’s the deal with vagabond? like, you know the guy’s batshit, right?” 

“vagabond’s alright,” geoff says easily, tracing the line of their escape route with a red sharpie. “known him for years, he’s not as evil as the news stories make him seem.” 

“he told me he likes watching people in agony.” 

geoff pauses, pen motionless on the paper. he slowly puts it down, looking up at ray. “he told you?” 

ray is a little confused. “..yeah?” 

“it took half a year for vagabond to say a full word to me,” geoff muses, seemingly more to himself than to ray. ray blinks a little, and now that he mentions it, he can’t recall vagabond talking at all over the past week. it’d never stood out to him before: he barely sees the guy despite them being in the same apartment all the time, and yet he’s never heard the man open his mouth until this morning. that makes the one statement he chose to speak feel all the more fucking terrifying.

“well i’m flattered he decided to grace me with his voice,” ray huffs, turning his attention back to the map. “the dude’s weird, that’s all.” and geoff shrugs - he can’t really argue that, now, can he?

ray spends the rest of the day trying not to think about the implication behind vagabond choosing to speak to him. part of him doesn’t want to know, but it plays in his mind nonetheless, like a parasite growing and adapting. it peeks through the back of his thoughts just when he believes he’s forgotten about it, whispering, _hey, that madman clearly has something up his sleeve._

eventually he goes to michael, because he always does when his thoughts get a mind all their own. michael’s cleaning his knives in his bedroom, the lovely array of them spread out on a towel. ray sits on the floor, preferring not to disturb his friend’s work. 

“what do you think of vagabond?” it’s a precursor, but something he’s been meaning to ask anyway. he wonders if he’s the only one that finds the guy as morbidly intriguing as he is intimidating.

michael doesn’t speak for a minute; he raises his knife up and turns it slowly back and forth, watching it glitter in the light from the half-closed blinds. ray realizes he might be a little backwards - he finds vagabond creepy, but isn’t bothered by michael’s behaviors in the least. exposure, he would guess. plus the fact that he has a connection with michael, knows he’s not a bloodthirsty killer, just a normal guy with a not-so-normal career path. to ray, vagabond is a far away title attached to a faceless body, and all he has to go on is the slew of history that follows the man wherever he goes. 

“he’s weird,” michael says at last. “but. not to discredit the fact that he’s brutally killed a lot of people, but i don’t think he’s as bad as they say.” 

“that’s what geoff said.” 

“geoff would know, i guess, wouldn’t he? but i look at him kinda like i look at you.” 

ray’s brows furrow. what? he’s nowhere near vagabond in any way that he can interpret. michael looks over and snorts at his expression. “calm down. i just mean, most people that know you think you’re this aloof abrasive dude with the fastest trigger finger and best aim in los santos, the guy that never misses his target. but you sit on the couch all the time playing video games, and you’re dumb and get so involved in shit that you forget to eat or shower sometimes, and you laugh at your own fucking jokes. that’s not intimidating to me, ‘cause i know what a fucking loser you really are.” ray gives him an indignant glare, and michael pats his shoulder. “maybe vagabond’s the same. we’re seeing him as the mad mercenary, but i think there’s probably a personality underneath that somewhere.” 

“sure,” ray scoffs, but he gets it. he does. michael definitely has a point.

“everyone on this planet is a person, dude,” michael says sagely, turning back to his knives, “no matter what they’ve done. they’re still a fuckin’ meat sack with emotions and thoughts and stupid shit they do. that’s inescapable.” 

“i thought i was the smart one.” ray gets up to settle on the bed near the headboard, leaning forward to rest his weight against michael’s back. michael scoffs, reaching back to pat his head.

“get some sleep, you moron. what’s it been, like two days? i should lock up the xbox…” 

“you say that every time,” ray replies on a yawn, pressing his cheek to michael’s shoulder blade. there’s something about michael that is comforting in a way nothing else he’s ever experienced can compare to. they’re two souls set adrift, but always tied together, keeping them from drifting apart. or something like that. ray’s never been poetic. 

all he knows is that he sleeps best when he’s close to him. michael is someone he can trust to keep watch over him and never do him wrong or double cross him. ray’s never had real friends, and perhaps that’s how he can tell just how much of an incredible rarity it is to have a connection like that.

“we could share a room, y’know,” michael murmurs. “if it’d get you to get some damn shuteye once in a while.” 

ray smiles through the haze, already descending into dreamland now that he doesn’t feel exposed and unsafe. “no homo, dude.” 

the last thing he hears before he falls into slumber is michael’s exasperated “ _christ,_ ray,” and he thinks he might have laughed in reply before he went under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> couldn't help but indulge my love for team better friends, sorry guys! there will be more of a focus on ray and ryan interacting in the next chapter, i promise.


	5. deep worries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ray can never sleep for long; he has difficulty controlling his baser emotions.

ray feels like he’s been running for hours. his legs are screaming, sharp pangs going up through his ankles with every step, but he can’t stop, he can’t - he can’t remember why, but there’s dread building in his chest with every passing second and he doesn’t bring himself to look over his shoulder to see what’s pursuing him. he just keeps running, hoping his body won’t give out on him before he manages to escape whatever he’s fleeing. 

he feels something like breath on the nape of his neck and he screams, but no sound comes out, even though he can feel his throat vibrating and the strain of the sound on his vocal chords. there’s a sensation of being trapped in a vacuum or a black hole, nothing coming in or out, just him running and running and the prickling sensation of his pursuer growing slowly closer. 

his ankle gives with a sickening snap and he goes down, crying out soundlessly as his body hits the earth. the grass under ray’s fingers is slimy and dark, and there’s no light source that he can see but the liquid still glitters where it’s sticking to his fingers. he can smell iron and copper and rust, so strongly that he’s choking and gagging on it, and he tries to pull himself back to his feet but pain shoots through his leg with such a ferocity that he just slumps down again in defeat. this is it. this is how he’s going to die. he rolls over onto his back - if he’s going to get slaughtered, he’s going to at least go down looking his killer in the eyes. 

they’re deep, deep blue, like the ocean on a summer day, and if it weren’t for the gleam of a knife held over his chest, he might find them comforting. his heart calms under his ribs even as the blade slips between them.

everything goes black except for those eyes, crinkling a little like the creature behind them is amused.

* * *

ray wakes up feeling, if it’s even possible, more tired than he was when he fell asleep. he sits up and rubs at the crick in his neck and tries to gather his bearings, shivering a little in the cool air. 

well. that was a new one. he’s never had that dream before, and it hangs onto him like vines, wrapped around the wrinkles of his brain like shackles. it’s no wonder he avoids sleeping like the plague - whenever it occurs, all it does is drain him and leave him disoriented and unnerved. he grunts and kicks away the blanket, getting to his feet. he’s still in michael’s room, but he’s alone, and there’s no real indication that michael’s been there anytime recently, so he figures it’s probably late in the morning. he gets up and opens the curtains to verify, noon sunlight spilling over him and blinding him for a moment until his tired eyes adjust.

“fuck you, sunlight,” he mutters. he’s always been more of a night person.

ray makes it out to the kitchen, scratching his belly a little and yawning so wide he can feel his jaw pop. he’s still exhausted but the urge for food outweighs it, and he bends over to look in the fridge, frowning a little to himself. the apartment is quiet, unusually so. the others must be out; michael must have tried to let him sleep. he can’t tell if he’s annoyed or grateful.

when he shuts the fridge door, a package of ham slices in hand, vagabond is standing on the other side. 

“holy fuck!” ray leaps back and knocks into the wall, heart hammering in his chest so hard he feels like his ribs should be splintering under the onslaught. “dude! don’t fucking sneak up on a guy like that!” 

vagabond’s eyes crinkle up into little half-moons of amusement, and it’s like deja vu, dread clamping icy fingers around ray’s belly. he sucks in a breath and tries not to let it show. 

vagabond reaches out, offering him the bag of sliced bread. ray realizes he has a sandwich in his other hand, and he feels stupid for being terrified - the dude’s just getting a fucking sandwich - but at the same time, he’s a little bit justified. especially since vagabond’s wearing his skull mask still. that thing is too realistic.

“thanks…” ray takes the bread, trying to calm the stutter of his heart. vagabond nods and turns to head into the living room. once he’s gone ray slumps a little against the wall and pants, gathering his scattered thoughts and relaxing his body little by little. shit. ray’s always been the one that could sneak around and scare the shit out of others, it’s a little distressing to be on the opposite side of it for once. 

_what a fucking asshole._

eventually ray remembers what he came to the kitchen for, and he prepares his sandwich in a bit of a daze before making his way to the living room with a little more caution than usual. he makes sure to check his blind spots in case vagabond is thinking of giving him another heart attack, but it proves to be a futile worry: the masked man in question is on the couch, watching television. watching spongebob, to be exact.

ray blinks.

“uh. whatcha doing there, buddy?” he settles himself on the other end of the couch, frowning at the tv screen. “shit, is this the one where they steal a balloon?” 

“on national free balloon day,” vagabond verifies. and it’s amusing to think that this hardened criminal has seen spongebob, let alone seen it enough that he knows the twist of the episode. ray is baffled, and unsure if it makes him feel more or less comfortable around the guy or not. does it add to the creep factor for a psychopath to watch a kids’ show? he doesn’t even know. he doesn’t know a lot of things since he joined the fake AH crew.

they eat their sandwiches in silence, vagabond sliding his mask up enough to expose his mouth once more; ray works very hard not to look over at the face paint peering out from under the dark plastic. he’s not sure why the face paint makes it creepier, but it does. like there’s no real person underneath, just mask after mask. a criminal with no real identity. he can’t fault the guy for being so adamant to protect himself, though. ray doesn’t go around handing out personal information either - the only difference is he doesn’t care if someone sees his face.

"where did everyone else go?" ray asks eventually when his sandwich is gone, curling up and tucking his knees to his chest. vagabond is still eating, taking slow, careful bites; he chews for a long moment before he responds with a shrug.

"just got here," is all he says, and, well. ray can't help but wonder where vagabond's been off to, not that it's any of his business of course. usually ray wouldn't particularly care to seek out that information, but something about vagabond and the shrouded veil of mystery that surrounds him makes ray want to know more. they're the only two that seem to be trying to keep any sort of distance from their crewmates, and that's something not even he and michael share. intriguing. 

he's trying to think of something, anything, to say when the apartment door opens and michael and gavin tumble through, laughing raucously. ray nearly jumps out of his skin in surprise; vagabond doesn't even blink. 

"remind me to never let you drive again," michael says, indignant and a little bit fond. there's a laugh behind his words that wouldn't be immediately noticeable to anyone unfamiliar with him, but ray hears it, fingers clenching a little in his lap. why is he jealous? what's wrong with him? 

"oh, micoo," gavin replies, butchering michael's name even more than usual, and ray doesn't know him very well but if he did he might say the brit is flirting. ray swallows. whatever. michael's got a friend, or a fuckbuddy, or whatever. that's none of his business: he and michael are friends, like brothers, but it's not like they're dating. hell, ray doesn't even _want_ to date michael. the thought's never crossed his mind. their relationship has always been platonic.

but the thought that there could be someone out there michael connects to as strongly as he does to ray makes the puerto-rican's blood boil. he's never been the jealous type, and yet here he is. feeling isolated and threatened and like a stranger in a strange land, tasting bitterness on his tongue when he sees his bond-brother flourish.

fuck, he's a terrible friend. 

ray tears his gaze away from michael and gavin making their way to the kitchen and finds vagabond staring at him, mask replaced, his eyes like glittering frost through the holes. ray gets the sensation that the other man can see straight through him, and he doesn't like feeling so exposed, arms wrapping around himself like he can hide from them. he's never felt so young, so fragile. he wants to go back to his room where he doesn't have to face any of this anymore, where he can stew in his petty emotions without dealing with prying eyes. he knows he's being a child, he doesn't need everyone around him to see it too.

before he gets past the couch and into the hall, though, fingers snag around his thin wrist. ray spins around, something nasty on his tongue, but the words die in his throat when he meets vagabond's eyes again. they look...sad. sympathetic. fuck, he doesn't want anyone's sympathy, but he can't bring himself to pull out of the other man's grip.

"you're not alone," is all vagabond says before letting him go and turning back to the television as though he'd never said anything at all. ray blinks, stepping back a bit, and continues down the hall. he tries not to turn the words over in his head, worry himself on whatever that was supposed to have meant. the dude's a maniac, who knows what he was trying to convey? ray doesn't care. he just doesn't care about anything.

it's not true, but he sets up his bong once he's back in his room and smokes until it feels like it is. apathy comes easier under the influence, at least, it always has for him. he blows lungfuls of smoke out of the window and ignores when someone knocks on his door. he's still tired, bleary after the nightmare, and he's in no mood to interact with anyone. michael especially.

he's being selfish and he knows it, but it's hard not to be. he wants things to go back to the way they used to be: the crew isn't as bad as he'd feared, but he vastly prefers the solitude of their old apartment. he misses when it was he and michael, back to back, fighting off anything that came their way. he misses feeling secure. 

he thinks he hears michael's voice through the door at some point, and then vagabond's, gritty and low and faded, but he's too far gone to be sure. he just shrugs to himself and curls up by his headboard, surrounded by pillows and blankets in a nice little nest of sorts. it's the only way he can sleep without feeling exposed all over.

he figures geoff and jackie will be home soon; until then he could use some shuteye to make up for last night's disaster. maybe the next heist will give him a chance to get along better with his crew, maybe find his place the way michael's found his.

he's still not sure if that's what he wants, but since michael shows no signs of wanting to skip out, he guesses he doesn't have a choice. he dozes off with a mind laden with anxieties, realizing faintly that it'll probably make his dreams frantic, but it's not as though he can turn his brain off. he can cope. it wouldn't be the first time.

he just hopes he won't see those eyes again. no telling if he can handle a round two of that nightmare.


	6. ill-laid plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the second heist seems like it's going to go off without a hitch, against all odds.
> 
> life is not so kind, however, and man does not often get out of these things unscathed.

“hey, dude, wake up.”

ray lifts his head, groggy and confused. what? where is he? he looks around the room with tired eyes, remembering the day before in bits and pieces. vagabond scaring him, gavin and michael, vagabond saying...something. what did vagabond tell him? he doesn’t remember, eyes falling on the bong sitting on the dresser and groaning to himself. he should never smoke before bed, it always fucks his brain up.

“ra - brownman,” insistent now, and he recognizes michael’s voice. he gets up, kicking away the blankets tangled around his legs, and opens the door. michael’s face screws up in disgust immediately, crossing his arms over his chest, and ray remembers he was mad at him yesterday, pettily so, and he feels like shit, even though he never expressed his annoyance outwardly. it’s not michael’s fault he wants to keep everything to himself, including his closest friend. it wasn’t fair to even think about being angry at him for that.

“you stink, dude.” michael loops his arm around ray’s shoulders and tugs him from the room, leaning him down the hall. “c’mon. jackie and geoff are planning the heist.” ray leans his head on michael’s shoulder as they walk, relaxing a little. this feels normal. maybe things haven’t changed as much as he feels like they have. 

everyone’s already settled on the couches in the living room, jackie leaning over the los santos map, geoff pacing around in front of the tv. he looks agitated, excited. when ray and michael enter the room he spreads his hands in delight. “alright! gang’s all here. take a seat, boys, this one’s a doozy.”

ray raises his brows and settles onto the armchair to listen. 

“so. shopping center, on route 68.” geoff leans over the map, pointing to a spot circled in red sharpie. “it’s got both a bank and a convenience store. and i was figuring, since we’re a nice round crew now, i think we have the manpower to hit them both at once.” 

“are you serious?” michael stares at him, stunned. “a bank and a convenience store? we’re gonna get fucked!” 

“‘ave a little faith, micool,” gavin replies. his eyes are bright with excitement, leaning in and grinning. ray frowns a little, unnerved; he’s with michael on this one, it sounds like a job for a much bigger crew than theirs. but geoff isn’t backing down, and jackie, while she looks mildly exasperated, isn’t voicing any objections. he glances towards vagabond, and it’s pretty much impossible to read his responses anyway with the mask on his face, but he catches ray’s eye and shrugs a bit. as though he’s saying, ‘ _why the hell not?’_

“don’t worry, michael my friend.” geoff sounds no less enthusiastic about it despite the protest. “we’re the best crew in los santos! we’re not gonna fail.”

michael sits back and crosses his arms, huffing softly. “what’s the plan. i’m not on board if it’s stupid.” 

“we’re going to go in at the same time,” jackie says when geoff looks to her, picking up her notepad off the coffee table. “geoff, vagabond and i enter the bank, gavin and michael in the convenience store. you two did really well last time, the bomb hiccup aside -” michael flashes gavin a look, and gavin has the grace to look embarrassed “- so we’re pairing you up again for this one. brownman, we need cover. you’ve got the keenest eye out of all of us, so we want you on top of the bowling alley and keeping watch for the cops. our jobs are to avoid tripping alarms for as long as possible, but eventually the police are going to get word, and we need to know when to move out.”

“can do,” ray says. he glances over to michael, who looks...relieved. he can’t tell why, but he doesn’t question it. probably just happy he’s on a team with gavin again.

geoff picks up the slack, uncapping a sharpie and drawing a line from the shopping center up to the blue splash of the alamo sea. “once you’ve robbed your joint in particular, you get the hell out of dodge. no waiting around, just go. head for the alamo sea, we’ll have boats ready to make our escape under the calafia bridge and down the river until we reach the ocean. at that point we’ll be home free.”

“so what happens if one of the teams does trip the alarm?” michael asks, his brow furrowed. geoff shrugs a bit.

“grab what you can and bolt,” he says. “don’t dawdle too long, our lives are more important than dollars. but if you can grab any cash before you run, do it.” 

ray nods. this is risky, but after the week he’s had, feeling off-kilter and confused, risky is just what he’s looking for. michael still doesn’t look particularly convinced but he voices no other protests, and thus, the crew gave the plan their blessing.

“tomorrow morning, my boys,” geoff says, rubbing his hands together. when he grins, the side of his mustache turns up in equal satisfaction. “tomorrow we heist.” 

\--

“i’ve got a good visual,” ray says over the comms, setting up his rifle over the lip of the roof. it’s one of the good kinds, the ones with a little wall around the perimeter of the roof structure, giving him a safe spot to crouch down out of the line of sight and pick off anything below. it’s definitely a much better setup than the previous heist, that’s for sure. 

“excellent,” geoff responds. “team two, you ready?” 

“we’re ready, boss,” michael says. 

“great. on my signal. ready...set...HEIST!” 

ray can hear it over the comms when geoff throws open the bank doors and shoots the ceiling, the tinny shrieks of people in terror crackling in the background. he peeks over the wall, staring down the street and straining his free ear for police sirens. nothing yet, but he’s not foolish enough to let his guard down. it’ll come soon enough.

he’s a born sniper, and that’s been his job for quite some time before the fake AH crew, but being a hired assassin and working with a crew are two very different things. being stuck far above the action with little sight into what’s going on is grating on his nerves. he can’t check in on their progress other than what he hears over the comms, and he feels...isolated. like there’s a wall between himself and the people he’s supposed to be covering. he doesn’t like it.

“got the money,” geoff says, and ray’s surprised that the bank team is the first to finish. there’s the crackle of gunfire, swift and sure, and then silence. “no witnesses. we’re heading out, what’s your status, team 2?” 

“getting there. he’s being slow but we’ll make it.” michael’s voice is tight with focus, and ray’s fingers clench a little, stunned at how smoothly this is going. are they really going to get out of here before the cops arrive? he watches team 1 exit the bank, heart high in his throat and pounding with impending victory. 

of course, things are never so simple. he really should have known better.

“bollocks!” gavin cries, and ray leans over the lip of the building again, trying and failing to see what’s wrong. “he hit the panic button!” 

_fuck._

ray is immediately on high alert, poising his rifle and straining to hear again. “police station is five minutes away, guys. hurry.” why did they pick this spot? he knew it was risky, and he curses his lack of judgment. he should have said something, done something...couldn’t they have hit a different location? 

the cops come all at once, cars roaring down the street and filling the air with the shrieking of tires on asphalt. ray hits anything he can, tires and windshields and drivers-side windows, trying his best to slow them down, but there’s so many. they must have caught wind of what was going on in the bank, too: only that would describe the sheer manpower. “take what you have and run, the calvary’s here!” 

“just a sec! almost got all of it!”

“michael, you don’t have a sec!” ray mows down another cop, ducking down to reload his rifle. “get out of there!” 

“we can’t get out,” gavin screams, and ray’s heart drops. he can see why; their vehicle is parked safely at the side of the convenience store for ease of escape, but the cops have congested the road. there’s no way out. ray’s so close he can hear the chatter of the police radios, but he has nothing to help them clear the street and run. 

_fuck, why didn’t we have team 1 stick around?_ the more the plan plays out, the less logical it seems. 

“i’m gonna have to blow it,” michael says, and the door of the gas station opens just enough for an arm to come out, a muted green block clenched in the fingers. with one practiced swing michael throws it into the street, just as ray thinks, _C4._

and then he realizes how close he is to ground zero.

he gets maybe a second to start scrambling back from the lip of the roof before the C4 goes off, sending cars flying in bits of flaming shrapnel in every direction. he gets a second more to think he’s safe, and then something crashes hard into his back and all his breath is gone. his head cracks against the concrete roof and he tastes blood in his mouth where he’s bitten his tongue, strangled groans pulling up from his ragged throat. 

“brownman! status!” the words are garbled - his earpiece must’ve gotten fucked up - but he recognizes geoff’s voice among the cacophony of everyone else, yelling and screaming. ray’s head throbs, and he gets the irrational urge to rip the earpiece out, but he manages to gather enough logic to keep his fingers from moving. well, that, and the fact that he feels like if he moves he’ll break apart. 

“i-i think i got hit,” ray forces out. “shrapnel. need help. michael…” 

“hang tight, brownman,” geoff tells him, but now that he’s said michael’s name he can’t stop. he just repeats it, over and over, his voice slowly dying out. he needs michael. he’s hurting all over and he knows michael will find him, come and rescue him and nurse him back to health. that’s how it always works. 

“brownman,” michael finally says, and ray could cry in relief at the sound of his voice. 

“i can’t...the cops are on our ass, gavin needs cover...just...wait for one of the others, okay? you’ll be fine.” 

the relief is short-lived. 

“michael, please…” he can barely get the words out around the pounding in his head, and he’s pretty sure he’s concussed; he can’t think straight around it. his back is screaming in pain, and for a moment, he can afford the focus to be terrified at the thought that it might be broken. what use is a sniper with a broken spine?

“just wait,” michael insists, and it sounds like his voice is tight. of course. he’s too focused on protecting _gavin…_ “i’m sorry.”

ray doesn’t respond, just works his hand up enough to rip his earpiece out, unable to stand hearing anymore. 

he feels like he lies there for hours, head swimming and barely able to keep his consciousness. he wants to sink under the surface and let the gentle fingers of darkness consume him, but he knows better. he can’t relax. he has to wait if he wants to survive, but that’s getting harder and harder still. 

when he finally hears the rattle of the fire escape, he can’t even lift his head, but he doesn’t have to. a pair of strong arms scoop him up like he’s a child, weighing nothing, and his head lolls into a broad chest. ray feels cool leather on his cheek, and closes his eyes. 

“no,” says a voice, gritty yet gentle, and ray opens his eyes again, looking up into the dark grey of vagabond’s skull mask, his irises gleaming through the eye holes like miniature oceans. god, he’s fucked up if he’s thinking things like that, but he’s never been so glad to see that face - or lack thereof. “stay awake. i’ve gotta get you out of here, alright, brownman?”

it must be the concussion talking, because all he can say is, “it’s ray...fuck, my name is ray, just...please…” 

vagabond blinks in what he can only interpret is surprise. “it’s alright. just try to stay awake. you’re gonna be fine.”

he settles ray half over his shoulder, as gently as he can manage, and ray thinks dimly that vagabond really doesn’t seem like the type that could be gentle. he’s handling ray like he’s something precious and delicate...though in this case, he supposes he kind of is. they get down the fire escape without any incident and down to the getaway car. 

vagabond sets him down, tender as can be, in the back seat, leaning in before he shuts the door. “gonna get you somewhere safe, ray, don’t worry.” 

he pauses, eyes scrunching a bit, and ray thinks he might be frowning, but his vision is going grey. 

“my name is ryan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so very sorry about the cliffhanger here. or am i?
> 
> things are finally picking up, at least!


	7. the unmasking

the drive away from the scene is agonizing, and ray remembers very little of it. there’s a brief memory of flashing lights coming through the rear view window, vagabond driving fast and dangerous to get them away from the cops and into safety. why vagabond came back for him, he’ll never know. 

not vagabond.

ryan.

he remembers that now, and he doesn’t understand. he knows he admitted his own identity in his stupor, but ryan didn’t have to return the favor - in his compromised state, he probably wouldn’t have noticed. but he had, and ray doesn’t know what to do with it. that’s not a new thing with ryan, he supposes. the guy is never predictable, never easily understood. like a particularly annoying, creepy riddle.

ryan eventually stops the car and gets out, hoisting ray up from the backseat and carrying him inside an unfamiliar house. it’s small and brown and utterly nondescript, nothing distinguishing it from the other mute-toned houses along the street. the hedges are trimmed, the lawn mowed. there are flowers in the flowerbed circling the porch, looking a little parched under the los santos sun. ryan produces a key from his pocket and opens the door, and once he’s inside he sets ray down on the couch in the living room.

it’s pretty sparsely decorated, but what’s there is nice, well-maintained. he can see an xbox hooked up under the massive television, the most expensive thing in the room by far. there’s a rustling of fabric and ryan’s dropping a blanket on him; it’s soft and plaid and warm and all he wants to do is curl up under it and sleep. 

“don’t,” ryan says like he can read ray’s mind, giving him a look that even through the mask translates as akin to fatherly chastisement. he turns and heads into the kitchen, coming back with a glass of water and two aspirin. “here.” he drops the pills in ray’s palm and passes him the glass. “take that.” 

ray does so without question, but his brow is furrowed; the water feels like heaven on his dry throat, washing away the stale metallic taste of blood in his mouth. he drains the whole glass before he gets too dizzy to keep his head up, slumping down against the arm and setting the glass on the floor by the couch.

when he looks up ryan is bustling around the room, peering through the windows and shutting the blinds and curtains tight. “this is my house,” he informs ray, and ray blinks. oh. “it was closer than the safehouse. geoff said he’s going to send caleb to look you over once the ruckus dies down.” 

“caleb?” ray questions, rubbing one eye with shaking fingers. he’s so tired, and his whole body hurts. he wishes he could sleep.

“he’s a doctor. been working with geoff and i for years, he’ll fix you up.” ryan goes over to the armchair in the corner of the room, slumping down on it with a loud groan. he sounds just as tired as ray feels. “so all we can do is wait.” 

then he reaches up and grabs the skull mask, pulling it off his face. it’s not as dramatic a reveal as it could be - he still has face paint underneath, which from this distance and under the dim light doesn’t reveal much about his features - but ray is still surprised. 

“you look like a juggalo,” he says without thinking, and immediately regrets it. _stupid. big dumb idiot. he finally reveals himself and you make a stupid joke._

“a what?” ryan says, looking at him with wide, confused eyes, and he looks so ridiculous with his smeared up murder-clown face paint and dadlike obliviousness that ray starts laughing, even though it hurts every time his ribs seize. 

“don’t worry about it,” he says between snickers when ryan looks nothing but more quizzical. “just. this band that dresses up like angry emo clowns.” 

“i’m an angry emo clown?” 

“pretty much.” 

ryan knits his brows and gets up from his seat. ray waves his hands apologetically, trying to backtrack, but ryan just holds up a finger and heads down the hallway. ray settles down, worried. ryan saved his life and he had to go offend the dude...he’s the biggest kind of asshole. no wonder he has no friends. 

it comes in a sudden rush, the memory of michael speaking to him over the comms. his heart clenches in his chest and he throws an arm over his eyes. fuck. maybe he’s just being selfish, but the fact that his closest friend and the person he joined the crew for in the first place didn’t lift a finger to assist him cuts deep. they’re a crew now, not a duo, but he was hurt and michael was right there and he…

ray doesn’t want to say michael didn’t care, partly because thinking it would hurt more than it already does, and partly because he’s not really sure if that was the issue. maybe he just didn’t care _enough_. ray doesn’t know and he doesn’t want to. things are changing in ways that he’s not comfortable with, and he still feels like an outsider, even with a crew at his back. 

confessing his name to ryan, as small of a gesture as it was, helped a little. he hadn’t expected that. maybe his feeling of displacement is self-inflicted, the product of him putting up barriers between himself and everyone else. he doesn’t feel entirely safe with tearing them down, but perhaps that’s what he needs to do. having michael as the only one that knows him beyond his face and his alias is not going to work anymore; it was sufficient when they were each others’ worlds, but that’s not the case now. he’s never felt so utterly alone in his entire life.

he hears footsteps down the hall again but doesn’t move his arm, uncomfortable with facing ryan again. “look, dude, i’m sorry, i didn’t…” 

“ray.” 

ray puts his arm down and blinks up at ryan, the words dying in his throat. 

ryan’s face is bare; there’s slight grey smears around his eyes where the paint is still clinging stubbornly to the skin, but he’s all exposed and open and...human. for the first time ray feels like he’s looking at a person, and not an autonomous mask with a story and a deep, raspy voice. ryan is a man, a man with a strong jaw and wheat-colored hair that arcs gently off his forehead, mussed up from being under the mask. his eyes no longer look intimidating, piercing: they’re warm and soft and gentle, the blue even deeper without the black contrasting around them. his mouth is quirked up at the corner, an awkward, hopeful little smile. 

“this better?” ryan says.

ray opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

ryan’s expectant look falls into concern, brows pulling down in worry. ray is struck by how expressive his face is - compared to the unreadable mask it’s disconcerting, being able to see every emotion that crosses him. “is...is this too much? i’m sorry, i thought…” 

“you’re fucking hot, dude,” ray blurts. _god dammit._

“oh.” ryan blinks at him, stunned. “uh. thanks?”

“fuck, i’m sorry. i’m…” ray makes a gesture that he hopes implies ‘fucked in the head.’ deep down he knows it doesn’t make his words any less true, but in a better state of mind he could at least keep his mouth shut. “i’m just...why?” 

“you seemed pretty uncomfortable with the whole mask thing,” ryan explains, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck in an outwardly awkward tic. “it’s, uh. a gesture of good will, i guess.” 

“i think everyone’s uncomfortable with the mask thing,” ray points out, sitting up a little and wincing at the sting in his spine. it feels more superficial than anything, like he probably has a wicked bruise. thank god. “but, uh. thank you. for trusting me with it.”

“you trusted me with your name.” ryan’s voice is soft. he moves to sit back down in his chair, elbows braced on his knees. 

ray doesn’t want to say that he would have never done it if he weren’t fucked up at the time, but if he’s honest with himself, it’s not something he regrets doing. ryan’s been nice to him, albeit terrifying; they’re the only two with a barrier between themselves and the others, and there’s some weird bonding that comes out of that. like they’re gravitating towards each other. in retrospect he realizes that ryan, though the creepy mask and facepaint put him off, is the only crew member other than michael he’s ever tried to interact with extensively.

strange how things work out that way.

“so, this is a bit of a personal question,” ryan starts, and immediately ray feels himself go on lockdown, though not as intensely as he might have before today, “and feel free not to answer, i’ll totally understand. but are you and michael, uh…” 

ray stares at him, confused, until ryan pulls a face and makes a hand gesture: his finger going into the circle of the index and thumb on his other hand. ray feels himself flush.

“no! no, no. michael’s an asshole, i wouldn’t let him put his dick anywhere near me.” that pulls a laugh out of ryan, a genuine laugh, and it’s so...weird. pitchy and high and nerdy. no wonder he never fully laughs - it would sound ridiculous coming out of that mask. 

“we are friends, though. kinda like brothers.” ray frowns to himself, pulling the blanket up closer around him. he feels cold, suddenly. his expression must reflect the turmoil beneath his skin because ryan’s expression turns sympathetic, and it leaves a slimy sensation on his skin. there is nothing ray despises more than sympathy.

“you’ve never been in a crew before, have you?” ryan asks him, which is a far cry from the condolences and reassurances ray is expecting. he’s used to people trying to comfort him when they feel bad for him, but ryan isn’t the type to go about things normally; still, ray is tense, suspicious.

“no.”

“no wonder.” ryan gets up to go peek out of the blinds again, checking the perimeter and murmuring as he goes. ray follows him with his gaze. “i heard you yelling for him on the comms. i know you two have to be close, and i know you joined together. but when you’re in a crew, you’re supposed to do the job you’ve been assigned. michael was assigned to stick with gavin, and he stuck with gavin.” 

ray doesn’t like where this is going. he folds his arms over his chest, glaring at ryan when he turns away from the window to look at him again. “so?”

“so, if he’d left gavin to come help you, gavin could’ve gotten killed. michael could’ve gotten killed. we could’ve lost half the heist profits. you have to stick to the plan or else everything falls apart.” ryan mirrors his stance, crossing his arms too. “michael understands that. you don’t. that’s understandable - you’ve never been in a crew. you were a mercenary. so was i, before i joined geoff’s crew in vice city, and it took a long time for me to learn that lesson.” he shrugs one broad shoulder. “comes easier to some than to others. some of us aren’t used to relying on other people.” 

ray is silent. really, what is he supposed to say? it feels like the cogs in his brain just stopped working altogether. he doesn’t want to admit it, but the thing is...ryan’s right. michael was just doing his job. ray was nothing more than a wrench in the program.

he lies back down, slowly, suddenly hyperaware of every ache and pain in his body. he doesn’t see ryan come back over to him, but he feels his hand on his shoulder, large and warm and comforting.

“get some rest,” ryan tells him. “caleb will be here soon.” 

it’s not hard for him to take the advice.

* * *

when ray comes to, there’s a man leaning over him, observing him through narrowed eyes. if he had any energy left in his body, ray would’ve punched him: it’s never smart to hover close to him when he’s down for the count, he feels exposed enough as it is. but his whole body feels sluggish and vaguely like it’s on fire, so he can’t manage more than a soft groan.

“oh, good. you’re awake.” the man sits back a little, giving him some space, and ray breathes a sigh of relief. “i’m caleb. you’re not looking too good.”

“getting hit by a flying car part will do that to you,” ray remarks, dryly. caleb snorts.

“well, i’ve checked you over and bandaged you up - “ 

“while i was _sleeping_?” ray feels violated. no one ever touches him when he’s not alert. that’s…

“if it had been something serious, it would have been better not to wait,” caleb explains. he’s giving ray a look like he understands, but that it’s a stupid line of reasoning. ray wants to bristle, but again, far too tired.

“whatever. am i gonna be okay?” he slumps his head back, and that’s when he realizes he’s not on the couch anymore. he’s on a bed, with a pillow beneath his head. what the fuck.

“you fractured two of your ribs. thankfully it wasn’t a serious break, or we’d have some problems, but they should heal on their own in about six weeks.” caleb squints a bit, going into a black bag he has by his side. “here’s some medicine to help with the pain, two pills every twelve hours. don’t go parkouring off any buildings or pulling any major robberies and you should be fine.” 

ray’s heart sinks. “that’s kind of my job.” 

caleb pats his shoulder. “i’m sure geoff will understand. he’ll figure out a way to get you on the field without hurting yourself if he has to.” 

ray doesn’t really feel comforted, but he doesn’t say anything else, and caleb leaves him in peace at last. 

ryan comes to check on him a few minutes after caleb departs, leaning on the doorframe and looking him over appraisingly. “we can head back to the apartment in a little while. if you want to take a nap first, that’s fine.” 

ray almost argues: he needs to talk to michael, and figure out what he’s going to do on heists with his rib injuries, but he’s still honestly exhausted and he doesn’t want to do either of those things while he’s feeling like death incarnate. he examines the unmarked pill bottle he got from caleb, and though he’s not sure if he should trust it, he’s too sore to question anything anymore. that’s become a trend over the past few hours.

he pops two pills, swallowing them dry, and settles back down to sleep. with all his worries he’s afraid he won’t be able to, but the combination of his body needing rest and the pills easing his symptoms has him slipping quickly into a dark, warm, dreamless sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> updates will probably be sporadic, but i'll try to keep it as frequent as i can
> 
> most of the relationships will be a bit slow to build, but they'll all come into play eventually.


End file.
